


Burning

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 14:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: Gibbs finds the consequences of sticking to Rule 12 hard to bear. Slibbs





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> I had intended this to be a slow burn to give Gibbs a lot of time to see how life would be without Jack, but 1. I'm lazy and 2. I don't think it's in-character for them to dance around the issue and play that emotional game. But mostly #1.

The kiss was everything and nothing like she thought it would be. Like the 99 times before, they stood too close, the gravitational pull of their orbits bringing them within touching distance. But on this, the 100th time, he stepped forward, his mouth colliding with hers. The basement’s cool air did nothing to alleviate the heat that coursed through her as his hands burned a trail up her arms and into her hair, and in reply, she hooked her fingers through his belt loops to tug him closer, pinning herself between the boat and his body. He felt hard and strong and safe against her and she moaned her appreciation into his mouth. The sound, twinned with his own, filled the corners of the cavernous basement, but when it cut through his haze, he pulled back. Her lips that followed his were deftly avoided, and he put his hands on her shoulders. 

“Wait.”

She grinned at the idea that he would be hesitant in his seduction. But the way he loosened her fingers from his belt made the smile fade away.

“What?”

Looking everywhere but at her, he said, “I need ya to wait.”

“Me?” Though the smile had dimmed, some amusement remained. “I’m not the one who answered ‘Whiskey or beer?’ with a kiss.”

"I know. An' I shouldn'tve done that."

He stepped back, though couldn’t quite let go of her fingers. She tried to read his thoughts, a task on the best of days, let alone on a Saturday night in his basement, the feel of his lips still tingling on hers. While her head couldn't figure it out, her gut seemed to know exactly what was going on. The bile burned in her throat.

“I can’t do this, Jack.”

_Ah, there it was._ His wasn't the only gut in the room that could suss things out. Swallowing hard, she pulled her hands away and tucked them into the back pockets of her jeans. Leaning against the boat, she warned, “I swear to God, if I hear you say ‘It’s not you, it’s me’-” He shook his head. “Then what is it, Gibbs? What is it that you can’t do?” Grace had her spill her heart in her office, and not two weeks later, she was practically doing the same in his basement. But if he was going to dangle that emotional carrot in front of her only to take it away, she damn well wanted to know why. “What can’t you do?” she repeated. “Kiss me? Fuck me? Love me?” Later, she would wonder which part had made him wince.

“I got rules for a reason,” he said by way of explanation.

Her brow furrowed. “Rules?”

“Rule 12.”

A hand came out from behind her to run through her hair. “Oh my god. I thought those were made up.” Her laughter was devoid of humour. “You really handcuff yourself with these rules?”

He bristled at the suggestion the rules limited his life. “I’ve burned one. For Bishop.”

She didn’t find his confession much of a defence. In fact, it only made the punch to the stomach that much more acute. “So you’ll burn one for Bishop, but not for me?”

Her irritation only put him on the defense. “If I burn ‘em all, I won’t have any left. I can’t live without rules, Jack.”

_But I can live without you._ He must have heard the inference behind the words because his mouth opened to say more, but nothing came out. Her mouth did the opposite, pressing her lips together to stop the pain from escaping.

“Wow,” she whispered, the first word her brain took a chance on uttering. Pushing herself away from the boat with her shoulders, she clasped her hands together. “Okay, so I’m going to go-”

“Jack.”

“Lick my wounds,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “and regroup.”

“Jack.”

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and spun to face him. “What, Gibbs? What?” Giving him another minute where she suffered in silence, she finally shrugged at his muteness. “It’s fine, Gibbs. I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse and come through the other side. This won’t be any different.” 

With that, she was up the stairs and gone, leaving him to consider how he’d just been put into the same category as the horrors she had endured.

…..

Monday morning came both too quickly and took too long for Gibbs, who had spent the rest of the weekend wondering how he’d face her. He thought about calling, but he was never the type to deal with things over the phone, and besides, what would he say? She had given him the chance in his basement and while his heart and his brain had fought over who got to speak, his mouth decided to say nothing. He didn’t imagine a phone call would change that. Face-to-face was always going to be his style; rip the Band-Aid off instead of pulling it in minute increments. That was an easier thing to say after half a bottle of whiskey at 3 in the morning. He was going to face her and then what? Pretend it didn’t happen? Admit that it did and move on? Admit that it did and he made a horrible mistake by pulling away and extinguishing the light in her eyes?

_Suck it up, Gunny._

Armed with a file from their current case, he considered knocking on her office door, but decided it was best to keep things as normal as possible. Whatever the hell that meant. If she really had regrouped over the weekend, he didn’t want to unravel it all by acting out of the ordinary. With that in mind, he stepped in and-

“Who’re you?”

The man in Jack’s seat looked up from the file on the desk. “Dr. Robert Nylander,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “You must be-”

Gibbs was gone before the man could finish his sentence.

…..

“Agent Gibbs,” Leon greeted at the unannounced visitor.

He skipped over the formalities. “Where is she?”

“Who might we be talking about?”

“You know damn well who, Leon. Jack. Where is she?”

Leon tossed his glasses on the desk. “I take it you’ve met Dr. Nylander?” He took Gibbs’ snort as a reply. “He’ll be looking after things while Agent Sloane is away. She’s had a family emergency. Her sister’s very sick.”

Gibbs drew in a deep breath and looked at the ceiling while he contemplated his words. Finally, he said, “She left because of me.”

Sitting back, Leon folded his hands on his lap. “You don’t think I know that?” He might have had some sympathy for the man had he not been the cause of Jack’s distress. “Gibbs, she doesn’t have a sister. It’s been our code for years when we need to get away but we don’t want or need to tell the other person why. She called me Sunday morning. Told me her sister was sick. Was all I needed to know.”

“How long?”

“As long as she needs.” His tone was flat and full of warning. “Dr. Nylander’s been put on the payroll for a month, though I suspect she’ll be back well before then. Whatever happened, she’ll bounce back. She’s one of the toughest people I’ve ever met.”

Gibbs’ didn’t doubt it, because he would say the same. “Where?”

“Nope,” Vance replied, putting his glasses back on and returning to his paper. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.” 

The accusation and the dismissal were clear and Gibbs left the office with less confidence than he had entered it.

…..

She always loved the feel of an axe in her hand. Loved the warmth in the sturdy handle and the way the wood scuffed up palms that had gotten soft since leaving the Army. There was a work/reward cycle that went into chopping wood that soothed her, the physical effort of raising the axe over her head offering the satisfying payoff when the blade hit the log. Her grunt harmonized with the deep ‘crack’ as the wood split and fell to the sides of the block. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and placed another log on the stump. Her shoulders were going to ache for days, but that, too, was a kind of reward. A little bit of physical pain to help her block out the emotional wounds she was letting heal. The axe came down again, crisp and methodical, a contrast to her thoughts.

When she called Leon Sunday morning, he didn’t question her request, and she loved him for that. The last thing she needed was for him to know she had made a horrible mistake by falling for his best agent.

_He’s the one who kissed you._

_Yeah, but you didn’t stop him._

_He’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions._

_So can you._

“Oh for god’s sake,” she said aloud to the empty woods. 

Leaving the axe in the block, she sat on the edge and took a deep breath. She always loved this place and the man who had come with it. 

_Crotchety old fart._

She laughed at the memory of the man who coached her in track and had come back into her life right when she needed it. She had run into him in a grocery store of all places, a year after Afghanistan. He had looked older, smaller somehow, her memories of him forgetting she was an adult now. She must have looked different, too, because while he recognized her immediately, the way he said her name was full of worry and concern. It only took 3 hours and 2 pots of coffee before she told him everything. Of course, it helped that he had changed his life and gone into psychology. 

“Only so much mileage in a track coach,” he said, laughing at his own pun.

He had offered her the cabin, saying he hadn’t been out to the east coast since his wife died, and despite Jack’s reluctance, he cajoled her into accepting. It had been in a half-state of ruin when she found it, but it seemed fitting that both she and it would get better together. She wondered if that’s why he left her the cabin in his will. That, and a note.

_No one can outrun things forever, Jacqueline. Hell, if you’re reading this, not even me!_

She looked around at the wood scattered around her and began stacking it against the cabin. She wasn’t going to run from this; she was a grown woman, not some lovesick teenager. But it’d be a shame to let a week’s worth of wood go to waste.

…..

A strange pall fell over the bullpen by the fourth day when it became apparent Jack wasn’t coming back any time soon. The feeling was only exacerbated by Gibbs’ growing impatience at anything and everything. Nick pulled Tim aside in the hopes the most senior agent could do something, but in the end, it was Bishop who took matters into her own hands. When her two teammates had left the office, she dropped a piece of paper on his desk. 

“I don’t feel great doing this,” she said, “but you’re driving everyone crazy.”

He tilted the paper to read her penmanship. “What’s this?”

“It’s where she is. Her phone’s still on so it was just a matter of triangulating her position. With some satellites NASA’s using right now, but we won’t talk about that.”

He almost laughed at her sheepish confession, but his mood wouldn’t allow it. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

His tone rankled her. “Fix whatever it is you screwed up.”

She returned to her desk before he could reply, though he wondered what he could’ve said had she remained. It’s not like he hadn’t already thought about using his connections and his will to find out where she had gone. Not like he hadn’t already sat in his basement every night since Saturday and wondered if and how he screwed up. Hell, not like he hadn’t already left a gruff “Touchin’ base” on her voicemail that- unsurprisingly- went unanswered. It didn’t help that work had dried up, their caseload being the lightest in recent memory, as if the job was tired of him using it to avoid personal issues. On the bright side, the lack of work meant he didn’t have to deal with her replacement.

Temporary replacement.

He took a second look at the information Bishop had procured. He knew the area well- secluded, peaceful, quiet. Assuming they’d ever get to a place where they could talk again, he’d have to ask how Ms. California came to know the secrets of the east coast. Though he had no intention of using it, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket and ignored the glare that came from Bishop’s desk.

…..

“Jack.” Vance stood and walked to the door, hugging his friend. “How’s your sister?”

The code made her smile. “She’s good, Leon. Better.”

The wood had lasted twice as long as she had thought, but she hadn’t been in any hurry to get back, so she was more than happy to stay. When the last log had gone on the fire on the eleventh night, she had called Leon to let him know she’d be back on the Monday. On that eleventh day, she’s also finally listened to Gibbs’ voicemail and wondered why she’d expected anything more than the terse message. In a way, she found his unchanging character comforting. It gave her some hope that when she returned things could, if not entirely go back to the way they were, at least be repaired as if nothing had changed. 

Leon mirrored her smile. “Good. I take it you’ve touched base with Dr. Nylander?”

She nodded. “I called him on Friday. We met up yesterday to go over a few things. It’s been quiet?”

“Eerily so,” he replied. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. But you know what they say about idle hands.”

“Yeah, I bet you got into all sorts of trouble,” she said. “And… everyone else?”

“Everyone else has been walking on eggshells because of everyone else.” 

She didn’t need him to decipher his code for her. The minute she had come back to D.C, Bishop had lit up her phone. (She didn’t ask how the young agent knew precisely when she had returned.) In a 20 minute rant that was half-crying, half-yelling, Jack found out pretty much all she needed to know about how things went while she was gone. Still, while she sympathized, she could only do enough soul-searching for one person. She practically told Leon as much.

“He’s a big boy, Leon.”

He hummed in agreement. “You know I’m not going to ask you, but I hope you’ll find time to tell me. I have alcohol.”

The well-worn lure made her grin. “How about Saturday? Looks like my weekends are going to be free for a while.”

“You not going to poker night?”

The days away had done a number on her internal calendar, and the reminder of the monthly get-together had completely escaped her mind.

“That’s this Saturday, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure…” Her voice trailed away.

He came to her rescue before she felt like she had to say more. “He came in on the Monday after you left. Flat out said it was his fault. I put two and two together.”

The information surprised her. “Did he? Well, I guess that’s something.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Jack. We’ve all missed poker night for one reason or another. No one will think anything of it.”

“Thanks, Leon. Raincheck on that drink?”

“Any time, Jack. You know that.”

“I could use one now,” she remarked, facing the door and facing the day.

…..

Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner to the top of the stairs and looked down for the one face she wanted to see and avoid in equal measure. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved when she only saw the trio of agents. Brushing her fingers along the stair rail, she got halfway down before Tim turned and smiled.

“Good to see you, Jack,” he greeted. “Everything okay with your sister?”

She avoided looking at Bishop, suspecting the woman knew far more than what she had let on in her phone rant. “Everything’s good, Tim. Thanks.”

“Well, we’re not fine!” Torres came around his desk and pretended to plead with her. With wide eyes and her hand in both of his, he said, “You can never, ever leave again, you understand? We can’t take it!”

Materialized by his words, Gibbs strode out of the elevator. “Can’t take what, Torres?”

“Nothing, Gibbs.” His eyes went to the man then back to Jack, his head tilt silently telling her exactly what they couldn’t take. 

She squeezed his hands and smiled. “Good to see you, too, Nick.” Mostly prepared for the inevitable, she turned to face Gibbs. She wasn't quite ready for it, but not in the way she had expected. He'd never be 'ruffled' or 'rough'- his military training wouldn't allow it- but there was a strain to his eyes, a pinch in his lips, and a tiredness that startled her. She wondered when he last slept.

"Fourteen days ago," Tim muttered under his breath, and it was only then that she realized she had blurted the question out loud.

"Grab your gear," he barked at anyone and no one. "Dead Petty Officer just pulled out of the Potomac." 

He reached around his desk, grabbed his weapon and made his way to the elevator without another word, his team scrabbling behind, leaving her to stand in the middle of the bullpen and wonder if this was how it was always going to be.

…..

He knew exactly what Torres was implying when he had interrupted them and McGee’s low mutter about sleep had only reminded him how the last 14 days had been without her. After the shock of her leaving had faded, he was left with 13 more days of a constant, dull ache in his gut that no amount of sanding or whiskey could abate. He thought the chasm in his chest would be knitted together by her distance, but it only seemed to make it wider, as if the farther she got from him, the tauter the string became between them. The tin with his rules laid open on his coffee table every night; he had hoped seeing it would solidify his resolution, but it only ended up taunting him. And if he thought the distance would give him time to get used to his decision, seeing her only made it worse.

"So I potentially tampered with national security and you didn't do anything?"

It wasn't going to get any better.

"Remind me to ride back with McGee," he said to the girl in the passenger seat.

Bishop nonchalantly replied, "Still gotta go back to the office, though."

"Bishop-" he snapped, but she had already turned her attention to the passing scenery out her window.

…..

Almost 2 weeks of cold cases had dulled their edge and Gibbs was able to sharpen his tongue on the lackadaisical efforts of both Torres and McGee. But it was yet another effort he thought would make him feel better but didn't, and by the time everyone got back to the office, only Bishop's experience with bickering brothers prevented an outright mutiny. After having a word with them, she had one for Gibbs.

She stood at his desk, fidgeting with the paper in her hand. "I've written up details of the scene and the victim. We still need Jimmy's report, but I I think Agent Sloane could help us draw up a profile on Belinda Zimmerman's killer."

He was about to ask her what she was doing standing there, but he relented when he saw the downcast look on her face. He knew he had been hard on them, knew she was trying to be the buffer, knew it wasn’t fair to her. 

“Go light a fire under Jimmy,” he told her, standing and taking the paper, his eyes gentling his tone. 

Her smile was her silent acknowledgement. “On it.”

Without a word to the other two agents who were watching intently even as they pretended to be working, he bounded up the stairs.

_No time like the present._

As he had done two weeks ago, he forgoed the knock and walked right in. Her smile didn’t falter when she saw it was him, but it didn’t brighten either, not in the way he had grown accustomed to, had looked forward to. Friendly. Welcoming. But not _his_. And he had no one to blame but himself. With a barely perceptible sigh, he walked to her desk and handed her the paper. 

“Bishop’s drawn up the details on the victim and the crime scene. She thinks it’s enough for you to create a profile on the killer.”

“Is that a challenge?” she asked, her lips twitching. 

“From her, maybe,” he replied. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The banter was a soft volley into hopeful territory and she received it with a nod. “Very smart. Take a load off.” Putting her glasses on, she skimmed over the information. It was all very neat and tidy, but nothing about it gave her any indication why Ellie thought Jack would be able to- “Ah, there it is.” Knowing he had an eyebrow raised at her comment, she said, “The bit with the broken pinky finger on the right hand. That reminds me of another case.” She reached for the bottom drawer of her desk, but when she went to pull it open, it didn’t budge. She tried again with the same result. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told maintenance to fix this.” Another try, another fail. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Rule 6.” The words were out of his mouth before his brain could take them back.

She had been looking at the drawer when he said it, and she continued to do so, but the light had dimmed behind her eyes. With one final yank, the drawer was pulled open with such force that the sucker jar on her desk tipped over before he could catch it, spilling onto the carpet.

“There,” she said, as if that had been her intent all along. It only took her a minute to find the pertinent file which she dropped on her desk. 

He sat silent as a stone.

“Three other cases where the body was dumped into the local lake or river, all three military, all three had their right pinky finger broken. That’s a sign of aggression, or it’s meant to be a message to others. Not sure what the connection is between the victims, but that’s your job.” She handed him the file, her tone curt and professional.

He considered saying something, anything, but her eyes cut him off before he could manage more than his own curt, “Thanks.” He stood, then bent down to pick up the jar and scoop all of its contents back inside. 

_If only everything else was that easy._

…..

After the stumble in her office on Monday, the rest of the week, while not entirely uncomfortable, tight walked on distant. So it didn't surprise him when she didn't show up for poker night. Yet her empty space hit him harder than if she had been there. It made him itchy and fidgety and distracted. He lost 3 hands in a row when Grace finally couldn't take it. When it was his turn to deal, she grabbed the cards and held them out of his reach.

"Spill it."

Hiding his emotions was what he was good at, but he knew she could see right through him. Still, he tried it anyway.

"Spill what?"

Tobias stopped chewing, the cookie pressing into his cheek. He muffled a question around it. "What did you do now?" 

Gibbs didn't bother looking at Leon, knowing full well the man wouldn't come to his rescue. Grace caught the avoidance and leaned sideways in her chair towards Vance.

"Where's Jack?”

“I heard she had a date,” Vance replied, looking directly at Gibbs over the rim of his beer.

Grace nodded sagely, then swivelled in her seat to look at Gibbs, eyebrows raised expectantly for his reaction. Tobias looked at Gibbs, then Leon, then Grace, then back to Gibbs. The chewing began again, slowly, until the silence stretched out and the cookie was gone.

“You’re kidding me,” was all he said, but when he got no reply, he added, “Oh, my god. You screwed up already?”

“Nothin’ to screw up,” Gibbs bit out.

The defense did nothing but encourage Fornell. “I thought she was smarter than that. Hooking up with a washed out, beaten up Marine relic? God knows I don’t see it.” He grabbed another cookie and pointed it at Gibbs for emphasis. “You, on the other hand, are somehow dumber than you look if you let that go.” 

He never backed down from a fight, but he knew he didn’t have a chance against his three friends. He also knew there wasn’t much to the fight- he _was_ dumber than he looked. But he also wasn’t in the mood to deal with something in public he was struggling to deal with in private.

“We gonna do an intervention or play cards?”

He ended up losing all his money.

…..

“Hold the door!”

Jack practically slid into the elevator from the parking garage and took a deep breath once inside. 

“Thanks.”

Gibbs nodded. The elevator began its ascent in silence. It dinged past the first floor when she spoke again.

“New tie. Court today?”

He looked at the tie in mild surprise, though her perceptiveness should’ve been expected. “Yeah.”

“I hate court. Especially on a Monday. The judge is always cranky. Like it’s my fault we don’t have 3-day weekends.”

A soft snort escaped his throat. Sensing an opening, he casually said, “Heard you had a date.”

“A date?” The word rolled around in her brain before the clarity arrived. “Ah, right. My date. Yeah. Two brothers, actually. Ice cream makers.” His slow side look made her shake her head and flick the emergency stop. “Ben and Jerry.” Even in the elevator’s blue glow, she could see the figurative light bulb go off over his head. “I see you’ve heard of them.”

"I like ice cream." It came out like a begrudging confession.

"Anyway, that's one reason I didn't show up." She shook her head. "Not the ice cream part. The part where I didn't want to be quietly interrogated by All-Knowing, All-Seeing and All-Eating."

His laugh filled the small space. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

“Tough crowd?”

“They like you,” he shrugged, showing no offense in his reply. 

“Mmmm. Someone had to be the villain.” Despite the hurt feelings and harsh words since their kiss, she knew she’d never not care about him, and to see him cast as the bad guy made her jump to his defense. “Whatever they said-”

“Said I screwed up.” He finally found the courage to look at her. “They weren’t wrong.”

She held his gaze for an eternity, sifting through the emotions behind blue eyes that were almost luminescent in the light. Uncertain if it was a confession or a statement of fact, she resisted asking and instead reached across him to bring the elevator back to life. His hand reached out to stop it, his fingers brushing across the back of her hand. Her intake of breath was matched by his clenched jaw. It took a moment for either to speak, and it was he who broke the silence.

“Comin’ to poker next month?”

Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed twice before replying. “Yeah. Can only expect you to face the firing squad so many times, right?”

“Right.” 

He pressed his finger down, ultimately using hers to flick the switch to ‘ON’. The elevator began moving before he did. She could still feel his warmth on her skin when she brought her hand back to her side. His stop came all too soon and not quickly enough.

“Good luck in court,” she said as he stepped out of the elevator.

“You, too,” he replied just as the doors closed. _‘You, too’?_ _‘You, too’??_ He headslapped himself.

Jack stood on the other side of the doors, pleased yet more than a little confused.

…..

The file was on her desk when she got into her office, a ‘thank you’ note written in Bishop’s neat printing stuck to the folder. With an effort to not think about what happened in the elevator, Jack dropped into her chair and tugged on the bottom drawer to re-file the paperwork. Expecting the drawer to fight her as it always did, she nearly yanked out her shoulder when it slid open with ease. Her first thought was to congratulate maintenance for finally fixing the problem. But something tickled the back of her brain and she lifted her head to look around her office. The picture directly across from her desk all but confirmed it, though she took in the other three frames hanging in various places around her office. Repeated closings of the door, chairs that inadvertently hit the wall, filing cabinets shut too hard had inevitably set every hanging picture off ever-so-slightly.

Until this morning.

She wondered when he had gotten in to level every frame, wondered if it had been a subconscious afterthought once he had fixed the drawer. Did the carpenter in him look around and feel compelled to put everything at right angles? Did he eyeball it or did he always carry a small level with him, the way he always carried a knife? His words and his actions were doing a number on her head and her heart. Thankfully, a distraction came from a knock on the door.

“Tobias.” Her desk was a minor obstacle for her hug as she came around it to wrap her arms around her visitor. “What brings you in?”

They made their way to the couch and he flopped down with a sigh.

“You missed poker night.”

She nodded at the obvious. "Had a prior engagement."

"Yeah, we heard. Vance's got balls of steel, I'll give him that much."

She had suspected Leon was the one who put the burr under Gibbs' saddle. Neither refuting nor denying Leon's claim, she asked “How was it?”

Sitting sideways to look at her, he rested his elbow on the back of the couch and rubbed his chin with his index finger. 

“When Gibbs found out you had 'a prior engagement'? You know, on one hand, I love it when he’s distracted, because I win a _lot_ of money. On the other hand, what a grump.” Her laugh made him smile. “So, is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You two had something and he screwed it up?”

If that was his line of questioning, she could only imagine how the night had gone. “We didn’t have anything,” she corrected. “I thought there might be a chance for something, but I misread some things.”

He snorted. “Sounds like shrink talk for ‘You two had something and he screwed up’.”

“First, I’m not a shrink.” He tilted his head and waited for the rest. She pursed her lips. “And apparently, there’s no ‘second’.”

“Like I thought. Listen, I’m gonna try to convince him to open the cabin early this year, but if I have to spend a weekend of Grumps McGrumps, one of us won’t make it back. So let him make it up to you.”

Her brow creased in confusion. “Make it up to me?”

“He screwed up and he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how to fix things. So let him figure it out in his own Gibbs way. Let him do some carpentry work for you, name his boat after you. Whatever.” The glance over to her desk didn’t go unnoticed. “Oh my god, he’s done something already. Jesus. Well, I'll give the guy credit- he doesn’t waste time when he knows he's wrong." When she tried to wave away the conversation, he shook his head. "I don't know how he keeps getting so many smart beautiful women to fall for him, but I suspect part of it's because he's a good guy. And I say that as someone who listened to Gibbs' ex-wife say the exact opposite. _Repeatedly_." Her laugh was warm and full. "So give him a chance." He stood and helped her to her feet. 

"When did you want the cabin open?"

He grinned at the implication. "Oh, not for another 2 weeks at least." Kissing her on the cheek, he gave one last parting word of advice: "Push comes to shove, tell him I asked you out. But take a picture when you do it. I wanna see his head explode."

…..

Her second visitor surprised her more than her first. 

“Gibbs. I thought you had court.” 

“Defendant plead out at the last minute,” he replied, placing a coffee close enough to her she’d know it was for her. When she raised her eyebrow at the sugar information scribbled on the cup, he shrugged. “Coffee girl recognized me and asked me if I was goin’ to work.”

She wondered what to do with that information, knowing it was a lie- she didn’t go to the same place as Gibbs. “I believe they’re called ‘baristas’,” she said, letting the minor fib go. His grunt said all that needed to be said about the term. His fingers absently tapped on her desk, a rare show of uncertainty. Looking up, she asked, “Wanna sit?”

The invitation was immediately accepted. Gratefully sitting, his hand went right to his tie to yank the knot free. She took advantage of the opportunity to just look at him, all crisp shirt and dark suit, all angles and edges. Her sigh caught his attention before she could look away. 

Attempting to get the first word in, she asked, “When did you fix the drawer?”

He had his own question. “What did Tobias want?”

The tone was conversational, but the expression was guarded. 

“He asked me out,” she said, just as casual, then slapped her forehead. “Oh, shit, I was supposed to take your picture when I told you. He’ll be so disappointed.”

The sound of his teeth clenching was almost audible. “You and Tobias?”

She clasped her hands together and rested her chin on her laced fingers. “Yeah,” she said dreamily. “Me and Tobias.” The ruse lasted all of 5 seconds before she sat up straight again. “Me and Tobias,” she repeated, this time with disbelief and sarcasm. “Really, Gibbs? Don’t get me wrong, I’d go to the ends of the earth for Tobias. But I think we all know he’s not really my type.”

She was right. They both knew exactly what kind of man was her type.

Her finger tapped the cup’s lid while she drew up her thoughts. “About that night…”

“Jack.”

“No. Let me say this. Please.” A deep inhale helped her continue. “If I made you uncomfortable or made things weird or awkward, I _truly_ am sorry. I value your friendship way too much. I hope that we can-”

“Last night,” he said, accepting but deflecting the emotional turn she was taking. “I came in last night. Bishop gave me the file on Friday, asked me to give it to you. Figured I’d try to fix things.” It was clear he was referencing more than the broken drawer. He waited until he was sure she understood before adding, “I’ve been here almost 20 years. Don’t even know what Maintenance looks like.”

As she knew it was intended, his dry delivery lifted the mood and made her laugh. Looking pleased with himself, he stood, casually scooped up the darts that were sitting in a nearby tray and lazily threw 3 perfect arcs to the bullseye. 

"Would you like Santa to bring you one for Christmas?" she asked, amused at how many times he had come to her office and thrown her darts.

"Nah," he answered, removing them from the cork and returning them to their place. Tilting his head at the board, he said, "Already got one."

For the second time that day, he left, leaving her to wonder what the hell was going on.

…..

"What?" he finally growled across the space between desks.

Bishop was unphased by his tone. "Nothing. Just good to see you smiling again."

Her observation cut off whatever retort was on its way, because he realized she was right. He _was_ smiling. It was an oversight on his part he immediately tried to rectify, but if her grin was anything to go by, it was a massive failure.

…..

His basement had always been his sanctuary, even in his darkest moments; _especially_ in his darkest moments. When the drink wasn't enough and the anger became too much, when the losses were too high and the emotions too low, he found a kind of soothing balm with a sander and a 2x4. Life felt simpler with the smell of sawdust and the sound of a hand planer gliding over wood. Which was why it was the first place he went to after work that day, the first place he could think of to help clear his head. He knew he had thrown Jack for a loop, not once but twice, but it was nothing in comparison to how much he was doing his own head in. 

What was his problem? He had rules, didn’t he? They helped him give structure, didn’t they? He looked around his basement, not empty, but devoid of a life other than his own. Devoid of the smile, the soft body, the warm eyes that were filling the room barely two weeks ago. But he still had his rules and that had to stand for something. 

_Right?_

Clearly part of him didn’t think so, considering he was fixing drawers and bringing her coffee. And working on some goddamn trinket box to hold her darts. The wipe across his forehead stopped halfway when he heard a noise upstairs. His eyes went to his gun but his hands remained still, confident in the weapon’s proximity. 

“When did you start locking your door?”

Glaring up the stairs, he asked, “When did you start breaking into houses?”

Grace waved away the accusation. “Please. The key was under your ‘Welcome’ mat. Which is kind of ironic, considering the homeowner.” She began descending the stairs. “Maybe buy a couple of potted plants. Make it more of a challenge.”

“What’re you doin’ here, Grace?”

She reached the bottom and sighed. “You lost a lot of money the other night, Popeye. I felt bad.”

Discreetly covering the small box with a nearby paper, he asked, ‘You here to give me some of it back?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I just felt bad.” Slowly, she walked alongside the boat frame and ran her fingers along the smooth wood. “A man and his boat. I could write an entire book about a man and his boat.”

“You’re not going to dictate it here, are ya?”

Ignoring his jibe, she stood near him and pulled back the newspaper before he could react. 

_Not so discreet_ , he thought. 

In a moment of softness towards him, she peered closer at the box and asked, “May I?” His shrug gave her permission. Lifting it up to the light, she whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s not finished.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’ll love it.” When she received no reply, she carefully put it down. “It _is_ for Jack, isn’t it?”

He threw up his hands, knowing he couldn’t argue with the woman. It was his rare sign of surrender that made her pull up a stool beside him. 

“What’s going on, Gibbs?”

His chuckle was low. “Same as always, Grace. Same as always.”

“Mmmm. Suddenly realizing every choice in life’s gotten you to this point? Alone in a basement with an _exceptionally_ beautiful woman… just not the one you were hoping for?” Her playfulness took out any risk of misinterpretation. “Oh, Popeye.” She cupped his chin and gave his cheek a tap. “If it helps at all, wooing looks good on you.”

“I’m not 'wooing'.”

Ignoring his sarcastic echo of the word and continuing as if he hadn’t spoken, she said, “I mean, most men go with flowers and chocolate, but you court women with hand made knickknacks. But if it works, it works, right?”

He wanted to argue, but he was so damn tired of the internal jousting. “Will it?”

She blinked at the glimpse of vulnerability. The simple question held the weight of his heart. “Will it what? Work? Gibbs, you could show up on her doorstep with a box made out of popsicle sticks and it would work.” Her hand went from his cheek to his shoulder to his hand. “I can’t believe I need to tell you this, but it’s not about what she gets- it’s about the man who gives it to her.” She twitched an eyebrow up. “Oh, God, why did I say it that way? Now that image is going to be in my head all night. Where's the whiskey?"

He jerked his chin towards the door. "Upstairs."

"Great." She slid off the stool, brushing the sawdust from her skirt. "This basement is 50 shades of depressing. Would it kill you to put some light in here?" She was still complaining, halfway up the stairs.

…..

He knew she was in the building after the security guard remarked how he wasn't the only one who showed up at the crack of dawn. Gibbs was there because he couldn't sleep more than 15 minutes without his brain knocking on his eyelids, but if she was there before 7, he knew exactly where she was.

Age and laziness had conspired to keep him out of the gym for years, but if he was going to be greeted by the sight of her, he wondered if he might start reconsidering. The soft tap-tap-tap brought him in, but it was her that made him move closer. She was a perfect balance of hard and soft, and never more so than at that moment, her lithe form lightly bouncing from foot to foot while her wrapped hands connected solidly with the bag again and again in perfect rhythm. She had headphones in and her hair up which gave him a view of the nape of her neck that made his lips tingle.The sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, impeded ever so slightly by the raised skin caused by the scars that crisscrossed over her back. His gut tightened at the sight; his mind creating an image of how they got there, his experiences telling him it was even worse. Her trapezius rippled when another straight right landed. Strength and vulnerability, that was her in one. 

He could've watched her all day, but figured he'd better make his presence known before she turned around and asked him what he was doing there. As it was, he didn’t really have an answer that was more than, 'Just lookin' at you'. Though he gave her a wide berth to avoid surprising her, she jumped when he came into her peripheral. She pulled out the earbuds and smiled.

“Hey. Scared the shit out of me.”

He couldn’t help but smile back. There was just something about a woman unafraid to be seen as she was, hair plastered to a face devoid of makeup. Especially this woman. Red flush staining her cheeks, chest heaving. Sheen of sweat painted across her brow. It didn’t take much to change the setting from the gym to his bedroom, and he willed the blood to stop rushing to his groin. He braced the bag to cover his reaction and silently encouraged her to continue. 

_Tap-tap-tap-BAM!_

_Tap-tap-BAM!!_

The second one knocked him off balance, and her response was a laugh. 

“Guess I don’t hafta ask who you’re imagining.”

She shook her head and began unwrapping her hands. “I’d be more concerned if you see me on the gun range.”

He took the inference in stride. “Wouldn’t be the first woman who threatened to shoot me.” For a moment, his memories softened at the thought of Kate. 

“Why does that not surprise me?” Walking over to her gym bag, she dropped one wadded ball of wrap beside it and pulled out a water bottle and towel. She took a long drink and patted her neck with the white terry cloth before asking, “What are you doing here, Gibbs?”

He’d been so fixated on her that he hadn’t thought of a reason between standing in the door and leaning against the bag. All he had was the truth. “Just lookin’ at you.”

The towel stopped and dropped into her bag. “Gibbs-”

“I don’t know.” The tone sounded harder than he meant. “I don’t know. I just know… you left an’ I didn’t like it.”

She frowned. “That night or the two weeks?”

“Both.”

She looked down at the other hand she began unwrapping. “We can’t do this, Gibbs. I can’t do this.” His heart stopped. “I can’t do this yo-yo-ing thing, where you act like you want me but you tell me you don’t. I can only eat so much ice cream and spend so much time burning it off at the gym.”

He knew then that he loved her. He could hide behind Rule 12, use it to keep a buffer between them, but her humour amidst the confession, the self-deprecating charm under the vulnerability, her beauty seeping out through the pain, would bring him back time and time again. Stepping out from his cover, both literally and figuratively, he went to her side, all action but no words, leaving him to just look at her while she gazed back, confused yet eyes flickering with a new awareness. His fingers brushing up her forearm lit sparks along the sensitive skin and her eyes lowered to his lips. 

The squeak of the gym door made her jump back at the new arrival, though Gibbs didn't move.

"Shit," she whispered, a profanity that sounded more like an admonishment than a disappointment. She threw everything in her bag and yanked it over her shoulder before heading to the showers without another word.

…..

Back in her office, she chastised herself with words harsher than the one she used in the gym. 

_What was he playing at?_

Immediately, she edited the thought. He wasn't a game player; if nothing else, he was the most forthright man she'd ever met. That night in his basement would've taught her that much if she hadn't already known. So why… this? This hesitancy from him to cut the cord, to make the break clean instead of leaving the rope frayed?

And why was she doing the same?

…..

The day had been a long one, not in workload but avoidance. Avoidance of him, avoidance of emotion. On the upside, she gave Tim two solid profiles on a case that had gone long cold, such was her determination to keep her mind occupied. She wasn't a clock-watcher by nature, but when 5 o'clock finally rolled around, she grabbed her bag and locked up. Like a coward, she snuck past the bullpen en route to the elevator, peeking over the railing for a glimpse of the man she'd been avoiding all day. Sure enough, he was at his desk, finishing up whatever he had been working on, always the last agent to leave. There was a dark duffle leaning against his chair and she wondered what was inside. Her curiosity made her pause just long enough for her presence to be revealed. As if he had sensed her there, he looked up from his computer and all the way to the upper landing. Her smile and wave was as automatic as his head tilt. 

She wondered how early she'd have to get to the gym to burn off all the ice cream she was going to eat when she got home.

…..

One of the cold cases she had used to distract herself had been ruminating in her head all evening. Unfortunately, she hadn't had the wherewithal to bring the file home, which was how she found herself signing in at the security gate at 9pm. That, and she had run out of ice cream.

It wasn't unusual to see agents burning the midnight oil, and it definitely wasn't unusual when that agent was Gibbs. What caught her off-guard was seeing him come out of her office, dark duffle gripped in his left hand. 

"Hey," she called out over the railing, catching him on the landing. She'd never use the word 'sheepish' to describe him, but the look he gave her was pretty damn close.

"Hey." He was caught between no man's land and based on his expression, he knew it. "Left somethin' on your desk," he said cryptically, then proceeded down the stairs, straight to the elevator. Her brain was still trying to catch up to her eyes when he was gone.

Still caught in a semi state of confusion, she walked to her door, turned the handle and stepped into the room that was lit only by the small lamp that seemed to illuminate the 'something' he had left on her desk. Trepidation led her to the single piece of paper placed square in the middle of the flat surface. Without her glasses, she was forced to read it from a standing position, but the words, inked in his distinctive cursive, made her lift it up to read it a second time.

_I’d never call myself extraordinary. I can only try to fix them._

He was cryptic at the best of times, particularly when it came to his emotions, but this was both the height of guarded defense and surprisingly revealing at the same time, even if the words didn't quite make-

Her eyes, darting around the room as her brain tried to put things together, landed on the handcrafted cabinet in the corner.

_Even extraordinary people can make mistakes._

The words she had told him, the memory she revealed came back to her in a rush of emotion. Willing her legs to move, she went to the cabinet and before she knelt, laid her hand flat on the smooth top and remembered her father. With a slight crack in her knee, she crouched and hooked a finger around the handle of the first drawer. A soft tug didn’t budge it at all. Puzzled, she got on her knees, looked closer and pulled it again. Still nothing. Almost as an afterthought, she tugged on the second drawer.

It opened.

And suddenly it became clear. He wanted to fix his mistake and only knew how to do it with his hands, not his words. Yet he hesitated in fixing both drawers, knowing what it represented to her. So he fixed the one, a respectful concession to its memory while still being an admission of his own mistake. The parallel between her father using the cabinet to woo her mother, and Gibbs using it to- was he wooing her, in his own Gibbsian way? She stood and placed her hands on her hips. Fornell had told her to “let him make it up to you”, probably because he’d never use the term. She looked at her phone and wondered if she should call Grace. The palm of her hand came up to slap herself in the forehead. 

“No, you dummy. You don’t call Grace.” 

She grabbed her keys off the desk and ran out the door.

…..

Despite knowing he was long gone, she scurried to the garage to catch up. Or maybe she didn't want to waste another minute. The route to his house was so familiar that she was practically on autopilot, the window rolled down to bring in the night air that she relished in a different way than California. She knew it would always remind her of him, no matter what happened. 

The cool air and the time to think took some of the shine off her determination, and her hand hesitated with self-doubt as it reached for his door. The turn caught; the door was locked. Uncertain yet unmoved, she let her eyes roam the area in search of a key. When the mailbox and the lone potted plant gave no reward, she looked down at her feet and laughed. Pulling the corner of the welcome mat back, she saw the bronze glint under the small light by the door. It took no effort to slide the key in, turn the lock and return the key back under the mat, though she took her time, not wanting to startle him if he was in the living room, wanting to will her heart to stop beating so damn loudly.

She needn’t have worried. The living room was empty, inhabited only by the floor lamp near his end of the couch and the smell of fresh coffee. The house was silent except for a soft sound coming from the basement. Summoning her courage to face him on his own ground, to return to the scene of the crime as it were, she took in a deep breath and stepped onto the landing. 

"Hey."

…..

When he'd heard the lock turn, he knew it was her; he knew she'd come the minute he'd seen her at the office. There was no hiding what he'd done (though wasn't the point _not_ to hide it?) and he knew she wouldn't- couldn't- leave it until morning. Yet even armed with the knowledge, he still wasn't quite ready to see her at the top of the stairs, casually tossing down a 'Hey'.

"Hey," he said back, unable to deny her smile, even if it didn't quite reach her eyes.

She was partially illuminated by the light from the living room and he wished she'd come down the steps, wished she looked less ethereal, wished she'd come down to his level where his size might make him feel more in control. Her feet moved at his silent thoughts, only to show him how ridiculous they were, because as she stood in front of him, a good 6 inches shorter than he was, he still felt small.

Wiping his hands with a rag, he looked down at calloused palms, wishing the words were there, the words he needed to say. 

"Probably shouldn'tve done that," he said at last. Realizing the statement could cover a multitude of his sins, he amended, "The thing with your cabinet."

"That's why you only did the one," she said.

He nodded. "I know it means something to you. Figured it wasn't my place." Taking a deep breath, his eyes sought hers. "I'm sorry."

She knew he didn't say the words lightly, knew breaking this rule was meant to show her he wasn't immovable. Her chest ached at his actions and his words. "Now it means more."

Her simple statement of fact threaded with unexpected warmth seemed to catch her just as off guard as it had him. She brushed back an errant strand of hair from her ponytail and looked away, as if contemplating her next move, as if she had used up all of her emotional energy just to get herself to the basement.

“I can’t do this,” she said, stopping his heart. “I can’t do this unless you mean it.”

When she shook her head to underline her conviction, the hair came free again and he couldn’t help but step closer to tuck it behind her ear. Her head turned into his touch, and she closed her eyes, one last attempt at defending her heart. But when his lips gently requested entry, she couldn’t help but give it. Permission granted released something in him, allowed him a newfound freedom to bring his other hand up to tug her hair free from its tie, to press her against his work bench, to moan into her mouth when she gave as good as she got. The heat from her hands was just beginning to permeate through his hoodie when she pulled back. 

"Wait."

The dread cleared his clouded eyes. Before he had time to wonder the worst, she sparkled, "I have a rule about not making out on the first date."

His confidence had brought back hers and he shook his head at her nerve. 

"Good thing it's not a date," he said, lifting her onto the table top, relishing in her laughter. "And if you count kissing as dating, this is technically our second."

"'Technically', huh?" she teased nipping his bottom lip. 

"Yep."

The invitation might have been 2 weeks late and come with some heartache, but his mouth and his hands were presenting plenty of reasons to forgive. And as if he thought she might need one more piece of evidence, he leaned back, his look taking some of the playful edge off, his blue eyes making sure she knew he was all in.

Her eyes answered back, and just to be sure, her mouth followed suit, but not before she whispered with an encouraging smile, "Carry on, Cowboy."

…..

-end


End file.
